


Yom Kippur

by wavewright62



Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: Comfort/Angst, Drama, Gen, Jewish Character, Jewish Holidays, Post-Mission, Year 0 (Stand Still Stay Silent)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-20 17:02:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13722132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wavewright62/pseuds/wavewright62
Summary: The Rash wasn't the first plague to fail to wipe out the Jews, and probably won't be the last.





	Yom Kippur

**Author's Note:**

> This will serve as my entry for the letter Y in the SSSS Alphabet Challenge.

\------------  
_Göteborg, Sweden, Year 0_

“I really appreciate this, Chaim.” The man held the parcel carefully, angling his shoulders so that the long bundle was shielded from the wind and rain by his body. Chaim just grunted and continued moving things around in the back of the SUV to accommodate the parcel. Finally, he carefully lifted the parcel from the other man and placed it carefully in the niche he’d created. The other man peered up into Chaim’s face from under the wide brim of his hat, but Chaim avoided making eye contact. “And… the other box?,” he asked softly.

Chaim sighed and gestured at the cargo area in the SUV, filled with boxes and bags. “How?” He adjusted his face mask. He was already late getting out of town, and had little idea how far he would get today. He jammed the heels of his hands into his eyes briefly, then glared at the boxes piled in the vehicle. He went to the rear passenger door and opened it, but it was no use. He could barely see the child strapped in there, for all the bags of clothing jammed around her. She was asleep already, her breathing harsh but steady behind her mask. Chaim closed the door again and slumped to the back hatch. He had to find a way to bring the prayer books with him, but how?

His eyes lit upon one of the boxes piled in the back. Holding back tears, he wiggled the box out of the SUV and hugged it to his chest. Chaim staggered into the foyer, laid the box carefully inside and stepped back a moment. He hurriedly opened the box and pulled out an elaborately embroidered bag, which he laid on top of the other box as he carried it out to the vehicle. The box fit in the new niche perfectly. He closed the SUV’s door but did not remove his hand as he leaned against it, clutching the embroidered bag to his chest and bowing his head. He couldn’t hold back the tears.

The other man laid a gloved hand on Chaim’s arm before hurriedly removing it. “Chaim, was that…?”

“Anita’s things,” Chaim nodded, “she won’t …she won’t…” He couldn’t finish the sentence, _she won’t need them anymore._

“We’ll look after them until you get back,” the other man’s eyes were red above his mask. They both knew Chaim wouldn’t be back. Many of the city’s residents had already fled the Rash epidemic, and the homely community Chabad house by the river was now being used as a hospice for the dying. “Thank you, Chaim,” he repeated. “I have a cousin who managed to make it to Mora, see if you can make it at least there. His name is Josef Rosenberg.”

Chaim nodded morosely as he strapped himself into the driver’s seat, tucking the embroidered bag inside his jacket. He rolled down the window. “Go well, rebbe,” he said as met the other man’s eyes for the last time.

“I expect so,” the other man gave a wry smile and laid a hand over the patch of Rash on his forehead, “and soon. Feh, it’s not the first plague that failed to wipe out the Jews, and it won’t be the last.” A harsh laugh. “You know all those arguments we had about the existence of an afterlife? Looks like I get to find out first, who was right.” Seeing Chaim’s stricken face, he shrugged, “Nii, not a good joke. But, maybe I can still help a few people before it comes to that. Teach the children well, Chaim.” He waved and walked back into the house, shoulders squared.

Chaim rolled up the window and drove slowly away, peering carefully through the rain to avoid abandoned cars in the streets and desperate people walking the footpaths, trying to find a way out of their once-pleasant city.

\------

_Mora, Year 91_

Onni walked among the trees on the Zornmuseet grounds in a gentle rain. He bypassed the gracious main house, keeping an eye out for the pats the cows left behind, and also passed the building that now housed Mora’s public sauna. He had found this refuge when spring came to Mora, so many months ago, a park that had once been the estate of a painter, 100 years even before the Rash. It was still kept as a community park, although cows and sheep were also allowed to pasture in the scarce open space. It wasn’t a proper forest, and he could not feel the gods or spirits of this place, but it was quiet, a natural quiet, not the enforced quiet of people not talking.

It offered Onni some respite from the Västerström’s house, with its boisterous children and visitors coming and going, and its awkward silences. The expedition’s survivors had been retrieved and had mostly dispersed again; only Emil remained with his aunt and uncle, but he too was preparing to leave again. Taru had already gone back to Finland, escorting a recovering Lalli. Onni had done what he could for his cousin, but the lingering aftereffects of his ordeal in the Silent World needed specialist care, from more experienced mages back in Keuruu.

Onni remained in Mora, but couldn’t himself answer why. He didn’t belong here, he wasn’t useful for the planning for another expedition, he had lingered through the summer, and now autumn and the new year had come again. He opened the door to his favourite building in the museum complex, the small one with a quiet window seat where he could sit. Sometimes they held craft or painting sessions there, but no one ever bothered him in his window seat. 

\---

August walked to services with the Rosenberg family, who usually billeted him for the High Holy Days. They lived quite close to the Zornmuseet grounds where services were held, which made the walk not too arduous for the elderly gentleman. Despite the solemnity of the occasion and the rain soaking into his cloth shoes and white wool trousers, he was feeling buoyant. He had managed to make the trip from Keuruu again this year, after being too ill the last two years; it was always a highlight of his year. He was fortunate that the skald unit always granted him leave to come to Sweden to perform this mitzvah.

His daughter and son-in-law and his new grandchild were planning to move to Mora this winter, after the cleanser season was over. So, next year, Hashem willing, they would all be here for the High Holy Days. In addition, the Rosenbergs had a new baby, and the newlyweds from Aurland looked like they were possibly expecting as well. Young Rivka had blushed so prettily and cocked her head to one side when August had wished her an easy fast.

August was shown with much deference to a seat near the front. The young shammash offered him one of the precious prayer books that had been brought from Göteborg, but the older shammash stopped him. He knew the book clutched so closely to August’s chest was one he had been transcribing for several years in his spare time.

As August brought out his prayer shawl, he was distracted by the older shammash speaking to a man seated in one of the built-in window seats in the back of the room. He couldn’t hear precisely what was being said, until the shammash repeated himself more loudly and slowly, “We have this room booked today. Perhaps you would like to come back another time.”

The man he was speaking to did not respond or stir. His hands stayed on his lap, picking at the hem of his garment, cut in the Finnish style. August squinted to get a better look. He certainly looked Finnish, with ash blonde hair and high cheekbones in his gaunt face, his mouth set into an implacable line. His pale eyes, currently fixing a hollow-eyed stare at the shammash, looked familiar somehow.

August realised with a shock that he knew the man – the brother of one of his fellow skalds, young Tuuri Hotakainen. He was a noita, what was his name, Onni? What was he doing here? August remembered that Tuuri had taken extended leave last year. She was a bright one, certainly, sharing August’s interest in languages, and had chattered so happily about a research expedition her kinswoman was putting together. What had happened to her, he wondered. Her brother didn’t look so good, maybe there was bad news?

He shuffled back to the window seat, saying to the shammash in Swedish, “Wait a moment, I think I know him, I don’t think he speaks Swedish. Allow me.” To Onni he said in Finnish, “Onni! Onni Hotakainen. Do you remember me, August Ekman, from Keuruu?” Only the pale eyes moved, blearily gazing at August, initially not showing any recognition. Then they seemed to focus somewhere inside, and Onni’s eyebrows drew together almost imperceptibly. August continued, “We are going to have a service here, the Jewish service of Yom Kippur. It is our holiest day. You are welcome to stay if you like, but we will be here all day.” Onni nodded but did not reply. August inclined his head but with no further input from Onni, returned to his seat.

The service commenced, several people sharing each of the precious prayer books that had come from Göteborg. The prayers rose and fell in their ancient tunes, and the prayer books extended to touch the precious sefer Torah that had also been brought from Göteborg to Mora in Year 0, as it was paraded around the assembled congregation. Mora could only occasionally muster a minyan in its own small community, but Jews from throughout the Known World converged on Mora for the High Holy Days, if they could.

No rabbis were known to have survived the Rash, but the community that survived had built its own consensus and carried on with lay service leaders. Like August, many of them were skalds, corresponding with one another to share whatever knowledge they could glean from any surviving materials. Their children boarded with a skald for a year leading up to bar or bat mitzvah, to learn the words to the prayers and other rituals. The community was tiny, but the Mora community had a saying, “the Rash wasn’t the first plague to fail to kill the Jews, and it won’t be the last.”

Onni sat in his window seat, letting the music and strange language wash over him, but was not inclined to leave, and the community took no more notice of him for most of the day.

As the afternoon shadows lengthened, the shammash came to August and whispered, “It is time for Yizkor, should you maybe ask the Finnish man in the back to leave?” August had quite forgotten about Onni. While he had gone without food or water all day, that was expected on Yom Kippur; he realised Onni would have also not partaken. No wonder Onni looked gaunt, maybe he hadn’t been eating much lately.

He got up stiffly, whipped the hanging edge of his prayer shawl over his shoulder, and shuffled back to Onni, who looked at him steadily. “Are you done? How many gods did you need to sing to?”

Onni had not cracked a smile, but August did. “Just one. But no, we are not done. We have come to the part of the service where we mourn the dead, and it is very holy.” Onni quickly looked away. August continued, “we remember those who have died from the Rash, and in the Holocaust before that, and all of the other wars, and those who have died during this month in past years, but we especially remember those near to us who have died in the past year.”

Onni’s face had paled and the hollow-eyed look returned as he stared beyond August. With a sinking heart, August realised that perhaps Onni was mourning sweet Tuuri, or his young cousin, the scout. How did this happen? He could ask later. “Onni,” he said softly to the window beyond Onni’s shoulder, “I will say this for you, if you will let me.” Onni did not answer, but rose when August beckoned.

August threw half of his prayer shawl across Onni’s shoulders and gently guided Onni to the back of the assembled worshippers. Onni frowned at the shawl but did not remove it, and August began intoning the prayer. Everyone was speaking aloud, but not in unison, each intoning at their own pace, and reciting names. Onni discreetly shifted under the prayer shawl, listening with disquiet at the murmuring chaos of voices, so different to the sonorous prayers earlier in the day. It reminded him somehow of the voices the undying ones made, but then he picked out names emerging from the murmuring.

 _Erik Schwartzmann. Mendel Freidberg. Annika Carlsson. Judit Broberg._ August started reciting some names also, Onni suddenly recognised 'Anna Ekman,' his wife’s name; she had died a few years ago. The older man bowed his head for a moment, then inclined his head toward Onni.

Onni swallowed hard as he realised he was expected to say her name. He opened his mouth but closed it again as his throat closed. He struggled to breathe. He had not sung a runo for her in all this time, he had not said her name, he couldn’t… August bowed his head again, and gave Onni’s shoulder a small squeeze. Onni stiffened against the touch, then sighed. There was a palpable feeling in the room; they were all mourning someone here.

“Tuuri Hotakainen.”

Onni had whispered the name. He saw her again as he had seen her last, telling him not to be sad. He said her name again, firmly, and the tears flowed down his cheeks then. August also murmured her name. Both men raised their heads then. “Thank you,” Onni whispered to August, who blinked in return, his own eyes red, before taking back the other half of his prayer shawl. “May…may I go?” he asked August.  
  
The old man shrugged and nodded, whispering, "Sauna tomorrow night?" Onni nodded. August was satisfied; perhaps he could ask then what had happened to Tuuri, if he judged Onni was open to the question.

The wind had changed when Onni stepped outside. The rain had stopped and a crisp wind blew, bringing an enticing smell of meat stew to Onni from some house he passed as he walked back to the Västerström’s house. He realised with wonder that he was hungry; no, he was ravenous. It had felt good to speak Finnish again, even as little as he had exchanged with old August; he had learnt some Swedish over the last several months, but he didn't like to admit it. It was time he headed back to Keuruu, he decided, as the leaves swirled around him.

Back at the Zornmuseet, the final service finished, the shofar blew a long note resounding in everyone’s ears, signalling the closing of the gates for another year. Miriam Rosenberg folded her grandmother Anita’s prayer shawl, given to her by her mother when she was bat mitzvah, and tucked it into its elaborately embroidered bag. To break their fast, some precious juice and challah bread was blessed and shared, and the assembled worshippers walked home in the dark to their dinners. Some of them would linger in town through the festival of Sukkot, but many would begin the long journeys to their homes within the next few days.

Miriam’s son Chaim Rosenberg, named for his great-grandfather, laid the wrapped Torah back in its canvas carrybag and carried it to join the box of old prayer books in the special closet in the museum’s office. With a slight jog, he easily caught up to the old Finnish man staying with his family. August smiled at the young man. “Thank you,” he said, “thank you for looking after the Torah. I hope you have a good year.”

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeknownst to Onni, some houses in Mora now boast a portrait of a mysterious pensive blond man framed in a window, painted during craft classes.  
> The process for producing a sefer Torah, one that is appropriate for use in a Torah service, is undertaken by specially trained scribes who embue each character with prayers and deep meaning. I don't pretend to know much of anything about the lore of these precious sacred texts, but I imagined rescuing one in Scandinavia would be crucial for any survivors.
> 
> Many thanks to Minutia_R for beta-reading this for me.


End file.
